Eldamen
by PAITKEN15
Summary: Anchros Stormsinger and Remil Iyegar are put to the test as leaders when they visit the world of Eldamen.  Its small population of Eldar may be threatened by their very own chieftain, and he may have the potential to bring about the end of all things.
1. Dellerath

_Anchros._

The voice in his mind awoke Anchros Stormsinger. He recognized it as belonging to Tharin Stormsinger, the Founder. Tharin was one of two former Farseers living in Anchros' mind who referred to him by his first name. The other was Anchros' former teacher, Ulsan Starborn, who had only recently met his death at the hands of Rhame the Defiled. Rhame had led a human army in the name of Slaanesh, and he hoped to attack the craftworld of Iyanden; the timely intervention of Xerim prevented the assault, but not without cost. Anchros had seen Rhame's chainaxe cut through his master's helmet, killing him instantly. At that point, Anchros became lost on the Path of the Seer, killing Rhame with Farseer Starborn's witchblades. He had kept his mentor's weapons and sworn to use them to protect Xerim.

Anchros shook his head to clear his mind of reminiscences. Now that he was Farseer, he saw the past and future as a shaken, disjointed mass of images and emotions. He had been reliving the Battle of Gorm, and this memory was unhappy. _Yes, Founder?_

_Are you adjusting well to your newfound abilities?_

Anchros sat up and put a hand to his head, closing his eyes once more. _Have you woken me simply to make small talk? Although I respect you, Founder, I do not appreciate being deprived of sleep. I need as much as I can find._ He worked tirelessly during the day, attending to matters of state, leading his Warlocks in battle discipline, and honing his mind and body for hours on end. Through studying Xerim's archives and speaking to the other Farseers sharing his head, Anchros hoped to become a force worthy of bearing the name "Stormsinger."

_I merely want you to be alert for an occurrence in the near future. But I speak not of your door._

"My door…?" mumbled Anchros aloud.

Sure enough, a knock came at the door to Anchros' quarters. Anchros got up from his bed to answer the call. There was a messenger outside. "Pardon me for awakening you, Farseer, but Freyan Forgeblade asked that you be summoned."

"Freyan? Please wait here for a moment." Anchros closed the door and retrieved an orange robe emblazoned with the rune of the Farseer. He fastened a belt around his waist after putting on the robe and retrieved his staff of office. The staff had been used by every Farseer since the Founder, and Anchros was not about to break a time-honored tradition even though he did not need it. Anchros then met the messenger and asked him to lead the way. While the other Eldar took him to Freyan, Anchros wondered why the Ranger would need to see him. Freyan and his Rangers had been sent on a quest to retrieve the spirit stones of those who had fallen during the Battle of Gorm and bring back the body of Ulsan Starborn. Freyan knew where the Infinity Circuit was, and putting Farseer Starborn's body in the Dome of Crystal Seers could have waited until the morning. This had to be important for Freyan to feel as though he must wake the Farseer and, presumably, the Autarch, their friend Remil Iyegar.

As Anchros suspected, he found Remil standing in the room with a stoic, sitting Freyan. The messenger who delivered Anchros to the room left the three friends alone together. Freyan's hands were clasped in front of his face. His brown hair was done in the style of his Path, pulled back into a ponytail. He turned his head to reveal the wraithbone eyepiece he had in place of his left eye. It was granted to him upon his becoming a Ranger. The eyepiece reminded Anchros of his own deformity: the scar left by his mentor's fusion of a psychic rune into Anchros' body. Freyan said flatly, "Farseer Stormsinger. Thank you for seeing me so late."

Remil went over to the table and sat down across from Freyan. "Please, Freyan. We may be your rulers, but Anchros and I are also your _friends_. Ysalia said she's told you this before. Don't be so formal."

Freyan did not relax his pose. "Very well. Remil. Anchros. My brothers and I found a strange Eldar community while returning from Gorm."

Remil looked at Freyan quizzically. "Strange? In what manner?"

"They live on a planet, but it's far from all known Exodite worlds. And although they welcomed us and asked us to stay, we remained only long enough to replenish our bodies. I felt a presence there that discomforted me."

Anchros furrowed his brow. "What sort of presence?"

"A malevolent one. But it was not Slaanesh. Not Chaos. And that's not all. Teren, the one who piloted our vessel through the webway, said we were pulled forcibly from it onto this strange planet, which they call Eldamen."

Remil looked to Anchros. "Surely that would require a familiarity with the Warp afforded not even to you."

"Very true, Remil. This means the entity which pulled you from the webway has a high likelihood of Warp origin."

"Possibly," replied Freyan, "but I see another possibility."

Anchros, of course, saw many possibilities, but he wondered which of these Freyan had considered. "And what is this possibility, Freyan?"

"Their chieftain may have psychic power beyond that of our greatest Seers." Freyan eyed Anchros grimly. "He may even have more power than you, Anchros."

Remil's face contorted in angry disbelief. "What! Freyan, be reasonable! That cannot possibly be true; Anchros defeated an enemy even his own mentor could not, and further –"

"Remil." Anchros placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am powerful, but not even I can isolate an object moving at the speed of thought and pull it from the Warp into real space. We clearly are faced with a force with power greater than mine."

"And the chieftain is not _necessarily_ more powerful than Anchros," Freyan pointed out. "I said he _may_ have more power. We do not know."

"However, I do know how we could find the answer." Anchros had a strange feeling deep within himself. It was a mixture of foreboding and optimism.

"Anchros," began Remil slowly, "please tell me you aren't considering going to Eldamen."

"What choice do we have, Remil? These are potential allies."

"Allies? _Allies?_" Remil took hold of Anchros' shoulders. "Did you not hear Freyan? He said he felt a _malevolent_ presence! You would risk walking into its lair?"

"The presence may be exclusive of the planet Eldar, and they may need our help in removing it. There is very little we know for certain regarding this situation. We could disguise the excursion as a diplomatic mission."

Remil considered this for a moment, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. To Anchros, it looked as though his friend was attempting to formulate an argument against visiting the planet Eldar. Finally, Remil's face shifted to an expression of surrender. "Very well. We shall decide on the details of this voyage in the morning."

Meanwhile, night had fallen on the planet of Eldamen. Dellerath Ran'tel, chieftain of the inhabitant Eldar community, looked at the sparkling sky. Thanks to the recent boost in his psychic power, he could sense events of great portent on the horizon. There would come Eldar from beyond Eldamen, weary travelers of the stars. He and his people would welcome the so-called "craftworlders" into their fold. Their millennia-long journey would end on Eldamen. No longer would they need to wander. Dellerath would allow them to rest forever with his community. There was a place for all at his table.

_Dellerath, it is time._

_I hear and obey._

The voice in Dellerath's head had never revealed its name, but his power stemmed from its source. Dellerath had made a bargain with the Voice. This bargain gave the Voice more power, and as the Voice's power increased, so did Dellerath's. The bargain was continual, so from time to time Dellerath needed to uphold his side of the contract again. The time had come once more. Dellerath knew what must be done. He found his daughter as he made his way to exit his home. She sat on the floor, sculpting figures of wood.

"Where are you going, Father?"

"An important matter requiring my immediate attention has come up, Hara. I will return before long." Dellerath could not allow her to know any specifics of what he was doing. This explanation would discourage questions.

"Please hurry back," she said with a concerned tone. "The night beasts will be out on the prowl."

Dellerath kissed Hara's forehead. "You needn't worry, dear."

Having put Hara at ease, Dellerath hurried to complete his mission. He contacted his four trusted followers psychically. Only they knew what he truly did on nights such as this. He commanded them to convene at the central nexus of the World Spirit, just outside of the village. They confirmed receiving the message. He hoped the work would go quickly this night. There was little difficulty in finding the house for which Dellerath searched. He knocked on the door.

Narn Drell answered the call. "Ah, Chieftain! Is something the matter?"

"I need you at the central World Spirit." Dellerath silently begged him not to question why.

"Certainly," Drell replied.

_This will be too easy_, thought Dellerath. Drell followed him dutifully to the arrangement of rune-inscribed stones which served as the center of Eldamen's World Spirit, the collection of the souls of Eldamen's deceased Eldar. Drell saw Dellerath's followers there and his muscles tensed. "Chieftain…?"

"Rest easy, Drell," said Dellerath as he prepared to draw one of his knives. "I trust them completely. Just stand in the middle of the stones."

Drell complied. "Like this?" he asked.

"Yes. Now…"

Dellerath closed the distance to Drell in an impossibly small amount of time and ran a knife across his throat. He proceeded to drive the knife into Drell's skull before plunging a different blade into his heart. With a third knife, Dellerath bisected Drell's torso. When Drell hit the stone beneath him, Dellerath removed the knives. A wispy, translucent light escaped from Drell's corpse and entered the surrounding stones through their engraved runes. Dellerath felt a surge of power and fell onto his hands and knees, panting. He looked up at his followers. "Dispose of the body," he ordered. They nodded in unison and removed Drell from the central World Spirit.

"Who are you," whispered Dellerath aloud.

_You have served me well enough so far that I may tell you,_ replied the Voice. _But you must swear to remain silent about my identity._

"Of course."

_I am Ynnead, god of the dead. Each soul that unites with the Eldar planets' World Spirits and the craftworlds' Infinity Circuits gives me power. When every last Eldar has died, I will finally have enough power to awaken and defeat Slaanesh._

"Every Eldar…?"

_It would behoove you to heed my words, Dellerath. You must be my hand on this plane. You must speed my coming, that She Who Thirsts may meet her end. Begin with Eldamen. Then move to the craftworlds and Exodite worlds. It will take time. But I give my word to protect you as long as you are doing my work. You cannot fail._

"As you command, Ynnead."

Dellerath stood up and adjusted his clothing. He returned to his home. Hara was still carving. She looked at him and smiled. "Thank goodness you've returned, Father. I was beginning to worry." She embraced him. As Dellerath held her, he hoped there was no lingering smell of blood on his clothing.

They let go. Dellerath said, "I must retire for the night, Hara. It is late."

"Very well, Father. Sleep well."

"I shall."

In truth, Dellerath had doubts if he would sleep well. Ynnead told him he would need to kill every Eldar living on Eldamen. This troubled him. Could he really kill his own daughter? Hara was the only reminder he had of his wife, passed a long time before. She looked so much like her mother that sometimes it hurt. Dellerath shook his head. He need not confront his daughter's death prematurely.

Still, sleep did not come easily.

Anchros and Remil studied the Xerimites they would be bringing with them to Eldamen. It was decided that Exarchs would be unpredictable in a diplomatic situation, so military was exempt from the selection. However, Remil arranged to have a few units of Swooping Hawks and Warp Spiders in reserve for the possibility of a battle. If trouble arose, Anchros could send a mental message to the Exarchs to speed to Eldamen with all haste.

Anchros had decided that half of the Seer Council would be best to bring with them, so he chose the three oldest: Fereth Girlan, Krenn Terrel, and Iyen Ras. Freyan chose two of his Rangers to go with him: Teren Ras, pilot and nephew to Iyen, and Minel Farsight, one of Xerim's few female Rangers. Ysalia would also be making the journey. Remil suggested to Anchros that some of Xerim's more common citizens go to Eldamen as well. Anchros must have foreseen this, because he had already decided upon five Eldar. He'd chosen a family consisting of a father, mother, and daughter: Ynas, Laen, and Narima Nightwalker, respectively. Ynas had once walked the Path of the Scorpion, but he now concerned himself with agriculture. Laen helped her husband. Narima was still young, but it would soon be time for her to choose her Path. The other two were Enthol Nesam, a sculptor, and Rhea Pandim, a weaver. Remil was satisfied with the choices and the landing party was gathered. Although Anchros had some misgivings about placing civilians in a potentially dangerous situation, he felt that he needed them.

Traveling through the webway to Eldamen did not take long. As they landed on the planet's surface, Anchros began to see conflicting images of the future. Sometimes he saw bright sunlight, with feelings of hope, goodwill, and the pride of victory. The Eldar of Xerim lived on Eldamen in harmony among the others of their species. Remil and Ysalia married, Freyan was no longer stern and serious, and Anchros lived out his life in peace. Sometimes he saw a sky black with smoke and death, coupled with feelings of loss, grief, and anger. He watched Remil lead an army of Aspect Warriors in destroying Xerim from the inside out. A village, presumably on Eldamen, burned as Freyan held Ysalia's dead body. The length and vividness of the darker visions led him to believe that such tragic futures were more likely than the bright ones.

Finally, he saw himself pitting his mental strength against that of an Eldar of Eldamen. Behind his opponent, he saw a dark presence from the Warp. The presence lent strength to Anchros' foe, and, using this might, he disarmed Anchros and forced him to the ground. He cackled wildly as he raised Ulsan Starborn's witchblades and drove them into Anchros' stomach. Anchros watched this villain destroy all other Eldar, be they Exodites, craftworlders, pirates, or Outcasts. His power only grew as more Eldar died. When at last all Eldar had died by his hand, the strange enemy killed himself, bringing forth an entity which would destroy Slaanesh. This Warp entity was no doubt Ynnead, the God of the Dead.

However, made even more powerful by the Great Enemy's destruction, it would then destroy the other gods of Chaos before enslaving the other races. The God of the Dead would take the fragments of Kaela Mensha Khaine and make them whole for the sole purpose of killing the Bloody-Handed God. Humanity would die in a futile attempt to resist assimilation. Ynnead would absorb the psychic power of their Emperor. The Orks' unstable, simple minds would be destroyed simply by close proximity to Ynnead's armies. It would inspire fear in the Necrons. Their evil gods, the C'tan, would be as nothing next to Ynnead. The Tau would hope to succeed where all other species had failed, but these hopes would die by Ynnead's hand. The Tyranids would flee, but Ynnead would find them.

Cegorach, the Laughing God who led the Harlequins, would hide from Ynnead in the Warp, as he had from Slaanesh. He would be the last living entity in the entire universe. In a battle with Ynnead, Cegorach would sacrifice himself to revive the Phoenix Lords. What small remnants of material space which still existed would serve as the battleground for the Rhana Dandra. Ynnead would destroy the Phoenix Lords one by one until only Fuegan remained. Fuegan would surrender himself to the Warp, destroying the material universe. Because the Warp cannot exist with real space, both would collapse into nothingness, bringing a premature end to everything.

Anchros shook his head violently to excise this troubling view of the future. They were once more in real space, entering Eldamen's atmosphere. Teren landed the vessel in a large field near the only sign of civilization on the planet. As the Xerimites disembarked, they were met by an Eldar wearing a robe which probably denoted some rank of importance.

He greeted the craftworlders as a collective. "Welcome to Eldamen! I saw your ship descending from the sky and felt the presence of other Eldar. My name is Dellerath Ran'tel, and I am the chieftain of the nearby village." He smiled. "Which of you is the leader?"

Anchros stepped forward, followed by Remil. "My name is Anchros Stormsinger. I am the Farseer of Xerim. This," he said, indicating Remil, "is our Autarch, Remil Iyegar. We rule Xerim jointly. I attend to most of the matters of state, and Remil commands the military."

Dellerath clapped his hands. "We are happy to have you here on Eldamen. If you would allow me to show you to the village…?"

Dellerath brought the craftworld Eldar to the settlement over which he ruled and toured them through it. Anchros became steadily more uneasy as he listened to Dellerath's voice. Then he realized he recognized it. Dellerath was the Eldar who had called forth Ynnead in his visions. Although he had no proof that these things would come to pass, Anchros would need to be cautious of Dellerath.

Would the end of all things begin on Eldamen?

If so, Xerim would need to stop it.


	2. Eldamen

_**As strange as the Exodites are to craftworlders, I have still felt connections to them. Dellerath Ran'Tel was as alien to us as are Men or the Tau. But when we discovered his secret, we could not feel fear or anger, as the other races inspire; we could only weep, and pity his soul.**_

_~ Farseer Anchros Stormsinger_

"**I think you'll find, Farseer," said Dellerath,** reaching up to pluck a piece of fruit from a tree, "that life on Eldamen is rather quiet." He offered it to Ancrhos, who declined with a polite gesture and ignored that he had insisted upon being called by his first name. Dellerath then extended the hand with the fruit to Freyan.

"No, thank you." Freyan knew this so-called "chieftain" was hiding something. Certainly Anchros knew, as well.

Dellerath shrugged and bit into the bright yellow skin. "Of course, no planet is without its dangers. There are terrible beasts which awaken during the night. We've been losing many a citizen of late to their hunts."

Freyan had been to Exodite worlds with such animals. Most Eldar on these planets knew not to go outside after sundown. "Do they not know to stay inside?"

"They do, but some mishaps are… unavoidable."

Freyan saw Anchros tense. Did he sense something that Freyan could not, being without the psychic prowess afforded a Seer? Dellerath's body language was difficult to read; this was not common among the Eldar. Much of their language depended on gestures and poses. What secrets did Dellerath keep? Freyan and Anchros made eye contact. The message was clear: Anchros was thinking the same things.

Freyan watched a stunning figure walk up the hill toward them. Before he even knew why, he asked, "Who is that, Dellerath?"

Dellerath looked in the direction Freyan was looking. "Ah." He beamed with pride. "That, Freyan, is my daughter, Hara. Hara!" he called. "Have you met our guests yet?"

"No," she replied. She only glanced at Anchros, but her eyes lingered on Freyan for a moment before she looked away, quickly, as though ashamed. "But I would certainly like to meet them." Her eyes drifted once more toward Freyan.

Dellerath made a gesture of presentation toward Anchros. "This is Anchros Stormsinger, Farseer of the craftworld Xerim. He is my counterpart on his home, possessed of vast psychic power. And this," indicating Freyan, "is Freyan Forgeblade. He is a Ranger, something of a traveler."

"A pleasure," said Anchros with a nod.

"Indeed," Freyan managed. He found it difficult to speak to Hara. It was as difficult to look at her as it was to focus on the ground. They made brief eye contact again; brief because they looked away as quickly as they had looked at each other. Hara's face was red.

"Dellerath and I have important matters to discuss. If you would like, Freyan, perhaps you could make better your acquaintance with Hara. That is," Anchros added, "if her father allows." Anchros' face betrayed nothing. Freyan could not be left alone with Hara. It would be too strange.

"A splendid idea, Farseer," Dellerath replied brightly. "These two have no interest in politics. Come!"

Before either Freyan or Hara could protest, they had gone, leaving the two younger Eldar alone on the hill. Hara sat in the grass, looking out at the nearby lake. Freyan moved closer to her, but maintained what he thought was a respectful distance. He remained standing. How should he begin a conversation? He was not accustomed to his current emotions.

"I love coming here." Hara kept looking at the water.

"The view is indeed spectacular."

They were silent again. After a time, Hara ventured, "Father said you were a traveler?"

"Yes." Freyan decided to sit. "Of a sort."

"How so?"

Freyan tried to choose his words carefully. Then he decided that it would be best to put it simply. "I ran away from Xerim, seeking adventure. I cannot say why. It may be related to my parentage. My mother died giving birth to me. My father was the Autarch, our supreme military commander. Perhaps I wanted to escape. When I spoke to my father of this 'wanderlust,' as we call the desire to leave the craftworld for such reasons as mine, he was furious. I left that very night-cycle with a few of my companions. My sister, Ysalia, begged me to stay." Freyan continued to stare into space. "Her tears. I remember her tears. I can still hear her voice, asking me not leave. But I had made up my mind. I can feel her arms around me even now. The softness against my cheek when she kissed me good-bye. I still hear her sobs as I walked away from her without turning back. I am not proud of that."

"But you returned to your home eventually." Freyan could feel Hara's eyes upon him. He did not return her gaze.

"Yes. Eventually. I am only recently returned to the Eldar Path." He felt his eyepiece. "This is a mark of my duty to Xerim. I wear it proudly, much as Anchros wears the scar upon his face. He received it shortly before my father died."

"Your father is…?"

"He sustained a wound during battle. He thought nothing of it at the time. It was also during this battle that Anchros became Farseer. Like his predecessor, he foresaw my father's slow death by disease. My friend Remil would take Father's place as Autarch."

"Remil. Does he walk around in armor?"

"Usually, since his ascension in rank. I take it you've seen him?"

"Yes. Do you know the other with him?"

"That is probably Ysalia. My sister."

"She is quite beautiful." Hara looked away. "I have no sister. Nor do I have a brother."

"I've met your father. What is your mother like?"

"She… passed shortly after I was born. I was very young, but I can remember a song she would sing to me. It had no words; there was only a melody." Hara paused. She then began to sing her mother's song. It was slow, soothing, and sad. It stirred Freyan's memories of Harlequin performances he had seen. If he remembered correctly, the Solitaire would sing it during one of the epic cycles about the hero Eldanesh. This particular cycle ended with his gruesome and bloody death at the hands of Kaela Mensha Khaine. As fiercely as Eldanesh fought the war god, he was slain all the same. The Avatars' hands still run with the hero's blood, as a reminder of Khaine's actions. Hara finished singing. There was another long pause.

"I know that song," Freyan finally said. "It is called 'The Death of Eldanesh.' Much as your planet is the 'Hand of Eldanesh.'"

"Father says we are directly descended from Eldanesh. I don't know if it's true." Their eyes met.

"It doesn't matter."

They moved their heads closer and closer. She said, "The song is too beautiful to hold such tragedy."

"The same can be said of you," Freyan whispered.

Few things in Freyan's life had felt as good as the warmth of her lips upon his. They remained in each other's arms upon the hill until a long time afterwards.

**Narima Nightwalker watched the Farseer** talk to this planet's "chieftain." Of all of the families like hers on Xerim, why did Farseer Stormsinger and Autarch Iyegar choose _them?_ Her father wasn't anyone special. Neither was she special, nor was her mother. Narima was just a delinquent; at least that's what her parents said. What did it matter if she wanted to have fun before she started walking one of the more rigorous Paths? Why should she become an Aspect Warrior or a sculptor or a pilot anyway? It wasn't odd for some eldar to remain students for the rest of their lives. Why couldn't she just spend her time learning about the Paths without following one? Maybe the Farseer could answer her questions. Her father said both of Xerim's leaders had been like her: an apathetic, trouble-making child, racing skyrunners in residence areas and lazing about on the shores of the Dome of Tranquil Reflection. Her father said he held hope that Narima could be "salvaged," as well.

"Salvaged." Narima resented that. He'd said it as though she were a broken piece of equipment from which only a few parts could be used. Was that truly how he felt? She left her parents angrily after he used that word. She needed to be alone. But she also needed answers. She had to talk to the Farseer.

"Narima, is it?" She'd become so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the Farseer approach.

"Yes. Why are you asking?"

The Farseer's face remained passive. "Did you want to speak to me?"

"How would you know?" Maybe Narima wouldn't win him over to her side with hostility, but it was a reflex.

"A Farseer knows much." He extended a hand. "Would you care to walk with me?"

Narima got up by herself, showing the Farseer she neither wanted nor needed his help. She hoped this action would make him leave. He lowered his arm and turned. His face showed no emotion. As he began to walk away, Narima felt the urge to follow him. "Wait," she said. "I did want to talk to you."

"And about what did you wish to speak?"

"I was hoping you could tell me why, out of every eldar on Xerim, you brought _my_ family here."

"Does this create a problem for you?"

Narima considered. "Well, I suppose not, but that still doesn't explain _why_. My parents are just farmers. I haven't done anything for the craftworld yet. Nothing about us sets us apart."

"Perhaps, Narima, we can return to the word 'yet.' There are many things which are _yet_ to happen. Perhaps I chose your family because of something your father _will_ do. Perhaps your mother _will_ do something. It could even be something you shall do during your time on Eldamen." The Farseer's voice and gaze became far away. "The future is an ever-shifting canvas of ideas, feelings, and events. Not even I always know what will happen next."

"You said a Farseer knows much."

He smiled. "And yet, there is just as much, or perhaps much more, he does not know, or cannot know."

Narima couldn't keep track of anything he said. "Do your visions of the future come true?"

"More often than not, one of the futures I see will come to pass."

"So choice makes no difference in anything?"

The Farseer stopped abruptly and turned to Narima. "No," he replied flatly. The word hung in the air, heavy, singular, and powerful. "Choice shapes everything, Narima Nightwalker. The future is what we _choose_ to make it. Through the Eldar Path, we are who we _choose_ to be."

Did he know she had doubts about the Path? Narima scowled. "Did you _choose_ to be Farseer?"

Farseer Stormsinger bent slightly to look at Narima at eye level. The stoic tone of his voice sounded almost angry. "Sometimes choices are made for us. And we must hope whoever made the choice is someone we can trust."

Narima was becoming agitated. "You never give any real answers! It's always a riddle, or some sort of 'ancient wisdom!' Is it impossible for a Farseer to just answer a question plainly?"

The Farseer stood up straight but did not break eye contact. "If you want an answer, Narima, I will give it. Your father believes you to be 'salvage?' Then prove him wrong. Show him, show me, show _Xerim_ you are more than just 'salvage.' You can _choose _to be more. You have the potential. You lack only the will. Find it, and you _will_ be more than 'salvage.'"

He _knew_. Somehow, he had known what her father told her, and he had known this was what she had wanted to talk about all along. After a long, silent moment, Narima said quietly, "Is that what you see in my future?"

"No. It is what my master saw in mine."

And with that, Farseer Stormsinger left Narima to consider their conversation.

**Several Terran weeks prior,** Inquisitor Octavius Maric tried to enjoy a cup of caf. He had too much work to dare facing the day without a pick-up. He wondered absently when Snakati would send his report. Five weeks should have been enough for him to reach the planet with the Standard Template Construct, then perhaps another week in which to locate it and one more for the report to arrive by astropath. A process of seven weeks at most had stretched into eleven. Had Snakati forgone the report in favor of returning with the Construct in hand? Maric could only hope this was the case.

If he had truly found the STC, and it was fully operational, the Imperium would no longer simply hold the xenos at bay. Mankind would crush all other beings into submission with the boundless knowledge of the Dark Age of Technology. It would vastly improve the Imperium's war machines, weapons, starships… the possibilities were endless. A fully functional Standard Template Construct would contain plans for any and all technology from before the Age of Strife and the coming of the Emperor. With it, the Imperium would be able to assert itself as the galaxy's foremost power, and all would tremble before it. Few working STCs had been found, even fewer had yielded any knowledge, and far fewer than that had yielded any new and _useful_ knowledge.

Zalt Jayano, Maric's aide from the schola, burst into the room, pulling Maric almost violently out of his reverie. "Inquisitor Maric!" he cried impatiently. The boy was smiling. So his exclamation was one of excitement, not alarm. It was unbecoming of an Inquisitor to show such emotion. Well, that was part of why Jayano had been assigned to Maric: to learn. Maric knew if Jayano could lose his tendencies toward being a boot-licking toady, then he could make a fine Inquisitor. Well, time would tell if he could live up to Maric's expectations.

"What is it, Jayano?" The boy usually insisted on being called by his first name. That was also unbecoming. Maric would break him of the habit in due time.

Jayano ignored the use of his family name. "It's Inquisitor Snakati's report, sir! It just arrived by astropath!"

"_What!_" Maric practically jumped out of his seat. "Have you read it yet?"

"No, Inquisitor! Nor has anyone else. You told me to inform you immediately when it came in." Jayano walked over to Maric's desk and handed him the small batch of papers. At least the boy knew how to follow orders; that was _very_ becoming of an Inquisitor.

Maric took the report, attempting to restrain his excitement and failing; he nearly tore the pages when he snatched it from Jayano's grip. He was about to read the first sentence and stopped. He looked at Jayano. "This is from _Farduchi_ Snakati, correct?" Snakati was not a particularly common name, but Maric had to be _sure_ he was expecting the right news.

"Of course, sir!" The boy was giddy. He stared expectantly at the report, his hands resting on the chair opposite Maric's desk.

Maric placed Snakati's message hurriedly on the desk and placed his palms on either side of it. He did not sit down. The first few lines were mainly pleasantries and formalities; these Maric merely scanned. He'd read enough reports in the past that he knew what to expect from an introduction. The report showed promise. Snakati had followed proper procedures upon entering orbit. Maric read the account of the landing with growing anxiety. Did Snakati find the STC? His brow furrowed at the beginning of a particular sentence. His anxiety was replaced by dread. Then Maric focused on one word which turned his dread briefly into fear, and then rage. He pounded his fists on the desk. "_DAMMIT!_"

The sudden shift in mood startled Jayano. "Inquisitor?"

"_Fecking. THRONE._" Maric scattered the papers across the floor, his anger overpowering all other impulses. "I should have _known_, Jayano! I should have _known_ Snakati would prove just as _fracking useless_ as he always has been!" Maric collapsed into his chair and threw his head in his hands. The pressure he placed against his temples did nothing for his anger. "I should have known he would find _some way_ to frack this all up!"

Maric stood up. "Jayano. I want you to listen to me very carefully." He walked briskly out of his office, his aide trailing behind. "You are going to have a ship prepared for me. This ship is going to set a course for Snakati's destination. You are going to get me 1,000 Stormtroopers and put them on said ship."

"Certainly, Inquisitor. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes. Fifty Grey Knights are going to come with us."

**Anchros felt the orbit of each rune** as they circled his body. They came to rest in a pattern signifying meditation, lines of red psychic energy extending between them and creating a field of isolation and protection. Certain he was safe from threat and interruption aboard the ship the Xerimites had taken to Eldamen, Anchros relaxed his mind and dove deep into his psyche. He imagined for himself a dream world in which he could speak freely to the past Farseers. A barrier in Anchros' head prevented their voices from overwhelming him, represented here by a large wall carved with a rune of warding. Anchros steeled himself and went through the barrier, ensuring it remained erect. Within, he saw a circular chamber surrounded by concentric circles of statues of Xerim's departed Farseers. He stepped to the middle.

_He seeks the advice of all of us._

_A rare occasion indeed; too often the counsel of Starborn and the Founder are sufficient._

Anchros took on a commanding tone. "You will hear me speak."

_And why will we, if you never give such an opportunity to the rest of us?_

_He was too young, Starborn._

_Much too young._

There was a cacophonous murmur in Anchros' head as the other spirits agreed. The voice of Tharin Stormsinger, the Founder, boomed over all others. _He cannot help when he became lost on the Path, brothers. It was not his decision._ The Seers fell silent. They would not argue with he who was responsible for Xerim.

"Thank you, Founder," said Anchros. He raised his voice and looked around at his predecessors. "I believe I may have found my apprentice. The young female I talked to earlier. Narima Nightwalker."

This announcement once more gave rise to an uproar among the Farseers. Anchros heard cries of _Preposterous_, _He will bring doom to the craftworld_, and _He is a disgrace_. He did not take kindly to any of those comments.

"Please," he intoned, "allow me to nurture her. I have read her runes; this is her destiny. Even now she comes to speak to me of walking the Seer Path."

_It is your decision, Stormsinger. We may only give such counsel as we can. If you do not heed it and events end poorly, you must live with the consequences._

_Dire though they may be._

_But bear in mind that very few of us have taken apprentices._

_Starborn was the first to do so in nearly two thousand passes._

_Your folly will destroy Xerim._

_And it will be your fault._

_And as She Who Thirsts tortures your spirit, you will feel that guilt throughout eternity._

Anchros scowled. "I will speak to my master. Alone."

The statues dissolved, save one: the likeness of Ulsan Starborn, Anchros' recently deceased mentor. _Anchros._

"Master." Anchros' heart was heavy. His master had been taken too soon.

_Anchros… do not take Narima as your student._

Anchros was taken aback. "Master? I thought… I thought you would understand."

_I do, Anchros. But one must understand the opposite position to disagree. She is stubborn and reckless._

"So was I." Anchros felt conflicted. He respected his teacher's opinion, but he felt he had a duty to train Narima. Narima reminded him of himself before he became a Striking Scorpion. "Master, please. I can make a great Seer of her."

_Anchros… it is as the others say. We can only counsel. You must make your own decisions._

"I know, Master. It is only… I had hoped I would have your support in this."

_I support you in all things, my son. Just bear in mind what I have told you. Perhaps we shall be proven wrong._

"Thank you, Master... I shall take into consideration your advice."

Anchros returned to the external world. The runes hovered easily back into their pouches. He thought carefully about all that the Seers said. He opened one of his rune pouches, withdrew a few of the carved pieces of wraithbone and focused his thoughts on Narima. He traveled along her futures. Some led to dark places, but most of those were dark only for her, not the whole of Xerim. The runes revolved around his outstretched hand as he found Narima's brighter futures, which were far greater in number than the dark ones. The majority of these led her down the Seer Path. Some took her to the role of Farseer, and others showed him visions of Narima as a Spiritseer or Warlock. He restored the runes to their resting place and sat in quiet contemplation, hands folded in front of his face. He felt a presence searching for him directly outside the ship. Anchros was not surprised to find Narima.

"Hello," she said. The young eldar would not make eye contact with Anchros. The Farseer felt a strange combination of emotions in her: apprehension, hope, and sadness. "I have… thought about what you told me earlier."

"And?" He would not give her the answers. He could not. She needed to make her own decision.

Narima held her head high and looked into Anchros' eyes. "Teach me the ways of the Seer." Her apprehension and melancholy melted away. Narima's resolve was hardened, and Anchros knew he could do nothing to sway her. He would test her anyway.

"It will be difficult."

"I know."

"And dangerous."

"I know."

"I have a feeling your father did not have this in mind when he said you could be 'salvaged.'"

"My father doesn't matter. Only Xerim matters."

"Very well." Anchros smiled inwardly. He did not allow his happiness to show on his face. "But know that I will not allow my student to learn before she is disciplined. You must join a Warrior Aspect and learn the art of battle, as did I, and my master before me."

"I did not know Seers needed to be Warriors first."

"They do not. But the rigors of the Warrior Path will prepare you for the further stresses of my Path. It will also serve to temper your mind, body, and spirit."

Narima bit her lip. "If I must, then I shall." She hesitated before adding, "Master."

Anchros allowed his smile to curl his lips. "When we return to Xerim, a shrine will call to you. Go to it, and learn its ways. Then, you will take your place by my side."

Narima nodded. She had a long and arduous journey ahead of her. But Anchros knew she could do great things.

All she required was guidance.

**Zarhuthil waited for a call to war** that might never come. He was not alone; his fellow Swooping Hawks were in the same situation. Melathanar, Exarch of the Shrine of Winged Judgment, insisted upon taking them through their attack formations. Following his brothers-in-arms, Zarhuthil skimmed close to a cliff wall, keeping with the single-file line of Trail of Guilt. The name was appropriate; in Eldar myth, hawks would follow killers as a constant reminder of their misdeed. The Swooping Hawks were a reminder to the rest of the galaxy that the eldar had suffered at their hands.

"Arc That Burns!" called Melathanar from the front of the formation. His students followed him as he brought the line on a curving path, firing bursts from his sunrifle upon a group of targets in the ocean below. The rest of the warriors imitated his attack, the volley of lasblaster fire reducing the targets to smoking scraps.

"Ascending Terror!" In response to the command, Zarhuthil took his place in the devastating formation, in which Melathanar's pupils surrounded him in a tight circle and fired downwards while soaring upwards. Their wings beat in unison as they climbed ever higher, out of range of the imaginary foes' weapons.

"Raining Shame!" The Hawks stopped their wing packs and dove into a freefall, spinning as their lasblasters spat bolts of energy downward, remaining in the circle formed by Ascending Terror. The wind in Zarhuthil's face made him feel alive. This was why he had answered the call of the Hawk Aspect: to cast off the cruel shackles of the ground and fly high above everything. Just before the squad fell into the waves, Melathanar cried, "Cloud That Scatters!" The exarch flew upward as his warriors sped away from him in different directions.

"Convergent Fury!" Zarhuthil turned in such a way that kept him moving in the same direction and followed his comrades' lead by shooting lasbolts at the single target which had risen from the sea. It exploded in a glorious blast of fire and debris. When the smoke cleared, Zarhuthil saw Melathanar hovering above the destruction. "Judgment is dealt, the enemy destroyed, return to the cliff."

Zarhuthil allowed himself to enjoy the flight to the cliff's top before alighting on the soft grass. He turned around to look at the vastness of the shrine. The artificial sun sparkled on the blue ocean below. The shrine was in a state of perpetual morning. Few things were more beautiful to Zarhuthil. Melathanar landed in front of his disciples. "Look to me, heed my words, become better warriors.

"You performed admirably, a formidable showing, I am proud. Yet you were not perfect; no one is flawless, we learn continuously. Tetheniel, you shoot too soon, improve your timing. Koralesh, you stray too far, remain with us. Namaril, you were too fast during Cloud That Scatters, slow yourself. Zarhuthil, your rate of fire did not match the others, quicken your fingers."

They nodded, accepting the criticism from their master. Zarhuthil flexed the fingers of his weapon hand. He had a goal, something toward which he could work. This satisfied him.

"You may rest, but only briefly, you must train further." Melathanar retreated into the stone building which contained their armory.

Koralesh turned to Zarhuthil. "Zarhuthil, do you know why the Autarch asked Melathanar to remain alert?"

"Perhaps he expects some danger on his voyage." Zarhuthil thought that was the Autarch's own business. If their commander called for them, then they would go.

Namaril said, "I heard a group of Rangers found a planet of Eldar far from Exodite space."

Tetheniel snorted. He was the oldest among the Swooping Hawks of the Winged Judgment, perhaps just past four hundred passes. He had spent more than two hundred fifty as a Hawk, longer than Zarhuthil had been alive. "Hmph. A rumor. Farseer Stormsinger has probably seen a strong vision of a battle."

"No, it's true," replied Namaril. "I saw them leave on a small passenger ship. They took half of the Seer Council and several other Xerimites with them."

"That means nothing. They could easily have been traveling to another craftworld. Perhaps Biel-Tan or Alai – "

A brief psychic pulse interrupted Tetheniel. They had all felt it. Bloodshed. Violence. War. Melathanar ran out of the armory. "We must go, the call has come, make all haste."


	3. Basahd

_**Call for reinforcements claimed presence of craftworld Eldar. No supporting evidence found. Possible settlement in ruins. Imperial forces dead. Recovered vox transmissions garbled. Only one clear word, repeated between long intervals of static: "Basahd."**_

_~ Excerpt from Official Inquisitorial Report on "The Basahd Incident"_

_**Sacrifice them, Dellerath,**_ commanded Ynnead.

_But will they follow?_ Ynnead wanted him to kill the Xerimites. He was conflicted. They had shown Dellerath nothing but kindness.

_They will. I assure you of this._

Hara was in love with Freyan. How could Dellerath take that from her? And would he truly repay their goodwill with this act?

_If you will not kill them all, kill the ones named Nightwalker, Nesam, and Pandim. Perhaps then we will have enough power to destroy the Seers._

_As you command._

Something still felt wrong to Dellerath. Was his killing of other eldar justified? True, the Great Enemy had to be destroyed… but what good would it do his people if they were not alive to celebrate the defeat of She Who Thirsts? Would it not be nobler to allow the craftworlds to continue their fight against Slaanesh and join them? Dellerath fell to his knees in mid-thought. He struggled to stand.

_Such thoughts are dangerous, Dellerath._

"Wh… what…?" said Dellerath aloud. There was a searing pain in his head, like something was clawing at the corners of his brain and trying to escape. He could not move.

_It was unwise of you to let me in,_ said Ynnead. The voice of the God of the Dead became darker, more sinister. It became as a chorus of hundreds of rasping voices when Ynnead laughed. _The eldar know better by now._

"S… stop… _stop_…" Every moment was agony for Dellerath. He felt himself fading somehow. His hand reached up for his waystone. He fought against the impulse to take it off. He was not in control. He was being overpowered by Ynnead. Dellerath's trembling hand closed around the blue gem and pulled on it with great force, breaking the chain on which it hung. He threw it away, no longer able to struggle for control of his body.

_You were weak. Foolish. You truly believed me to be the God of the Dead who would deliver you from Slaanesh?_ The thing laughed again. _Gullible._

Dellerath was losing all sense of self. He had to hold on, for Hara, for Eldamen, for Xerim…

"What… are… you…"

_I am Basahd, and you are now my pawn._

Dellerath felt his body distort painfully before his soul was rent in two and flung into the Warp.

**Anchros started violently.** His meditation had been interrupted by a psychic disturbance. He searched Eldamen for the source. He felt Dellerath only faintly; the chieftain's psychic presence had been overpowered by… something. Something powerful. Something malevolent. He felt within it a desire to kill every eldar on the planet. Anchros could not let that happen. The Farseer reached briefly into the future; he saw battle. Against what, he did not know.

He reached out to Freyan, Remil, and the Seers. They needed to know of this. He asked Freyan to secure Hara and Remil to return to Xerim. It would not take long for his friend to go back to the craftworld and bring back the Swooping Hawks and Warp Spiders they had prepared beforehand. He advised the mobilization of further warriors. Anchros commanded his Council to make all haste to meet him. Anchros took his witchblades and rune pouches. He had not thought to bring his armor.

_We learn from our folly, Stormsinger_, said a Farseer within his mind.

Anchros nodded. He ran to where the Nightwalkers had been staying on the ship. He opened the door to find Narima alone, sitting with her back against the wall and hugging her legs close to her body. "Where are your parents?" he asked, somewhat more urgently than intended.

"They wanted to see the lake at sunset. Hara told them it was beautiful." Narima fell silent for a moment. "They did not take kindly to my decision to become a Seer."

"They will understand in time, Narima. Please, come with me. And hurry."

Narima stood and looked at Anchros quizzically. "Is something wrong?"

"Do not question me." Anchros' tone brooked no argument, and Narima followed dutifully. They found the other Seers and Anchros led the way out of the ship. Shortly after they disembarked, Anchros felt for Remil. The Autarch apparently felt his counterpart's presence and filled his mind with inquiring thoughts. Anchros gave his consent, and Teren piloted the ship away from the surface. Anchros watched the vessel enter the Webway.

_May the Laughing God protect you and speed you on your way, Remil._ Anchros turned his thoughts to Dellerath. Then he recalled something Narima had told him. "You parents went to the lake?"

"Yes," she replied. "The sun has almost completely set. They should be returning soon. Why did the ship leave?"

Anchros felt an immense dread envelop him. "We must hurry."

They all ran toward the lake. Anchros hoped they would arrive in time.

**Narima could not figure out **what worried the Farseer. He outright dodged her questions and spoke very little. Why did they need to hurry to reach the lake? Had he seen a vision?

A blood-curdling scream cut through the twilit dusk. Narima recognized her mother as the source. She ran ahead. "Narima! Wait!" called Farseer Stormsinger. Narima ignored her master. She crested the hill looking down on the lake and saw a deformed eldar standing threateningly before her parents. Narima's father protected her mother, placing himself between her and the creature. The creature regarded them calmly. "Yes, fear me. Your fright is delicious." Its voice was a rasping collection of others. It stretched its arms to either side of its body. Narima saw sharp talons on its fingers. She at last recognized the creature as a mutation of Dellerath, the chieftain of Eldamen.

Dellerath pounced. Ynas Nightwalker stood strong and faced death with open eyes. Narima almost shouted, but she couldn't speak.

And it was done. Her parents were dead. It happened too quickly for Narima to believe it.

The beast saw Narima at the top of the hill. It screeched and charged at her. She closed her eyes. _I am not brave like my father._ She awaited death, but it did not come; the creature cried out in pain. She reluctantly opened one eye, slowly. Farseer Stormsinger stood in front of her, his left hand splayed toward the lake as the other clutched his staff. He had erected a psychic force field to protect Narima from the monster. "Dellerath!" he called imperiously. "Fight this invasion of your mind!"

"Dellerath is gone!" hissed the thing before them. "There is only Basahd!" Basahd scrutinized Anchros. "Wait. I know those colors. I did not make the connection previously. I once did battle with an eldar of your craftworld. He held that staff."

Narima looked to her master, who was visibly uneasy in the face of this threat. "He tells me you are a daemon of the Warp. You bear allegiance to no Chaos god, and you hold a grudge against the eldar."

"I will enjoy feasting upon your body."

"No."

The force field receded, gathering upon one point in front of the Farseer's outstretched palm. Basahd leaped, claws poised to strike, but the sphere of energy slammed into his abdomen, the concussive force sending him backward. Dellerath's possessed body rolled down the hill and lay in a heap at its foot. Narima was amazed by the power of the Farseer. He put down his staff and walked briskly down the hill. He removed to blades from his belt. As he walked, they crackled to life with purple energy, and their glow surrounded him. The air was thick with tension as Narima and the Seer Council watched their leader stand over Basahd.

"Do it," urged Basahd. "Kill this body. Dellerath is already dead. His soul screams in the Warp." The daemon cackled. Farseer Stormsinger hesitated for a moment, but that was all the opening Basahd needed. The daemon jumped, swiping at the Farseer. His witchblades fell from his hands, and he soon followed them to the ground. Basahd stood over Farseer Stormsinger and raised its claws, laughing at its triumph. Narima did not understand why her master had hesitated; Dellerath was clearly dead. Surely the most powerful mind on Xerim could sense that. She then realized the weight of what was happening.

Narima turned to the other Seers. "Can you do nothing to save him?"

"We are not versed in the ways of war," answered one.

"Help him!" she cried.

"We cannot."

Narima ran to aid the Farseer herself. Basahd flung her to the ground with a swing of one of Dellerath's monstrously elongated arms. The impact stole the air from Narima's lungs. She lay on the grass, struggling to breathe. With her parents gone, the Seer Path was all that was left to Narima. She could not lose he who had promised to teach her. Just as Basahd was about to strike and kill Farseer Stormsinger, it howled in pain and grasped its arm. The Farseer threw off his assailant and reclaimed his weapons. He impaled Basahd's arms and restrained its legs somehow, presumably with psychic force.

Farseer Stormsinger helped Narima to her feet. "Are you hurt?"

The combination of his touch and the concern in his voice quickened Narima's heartbeat momentarily. She composed herself and shook her head. "No."

"Good." He looked over his shoulder. "Perhaps you could wait longer when my life is in danger."

"I fired as soon as I could, Anchros," said a tall eldar wearing a shimmering, hooded cloak. He held a long-barreled gun toward the sky.

"That was humor, Freyan."

"Ha." The Ranger's voice held neither amusement nor sarcasm. He removed his hood, revealing the wraithbone apparatus on his eye. "Hara is concerned about Dellerath. She found his waystone, and I tracked him here to find a monster about to kill you."

"Look closer. That creature _is_ Dellerath. Or, rather, a daemon inhabiting his body."

"By the gods." Freyan was clearly disturbed. He prepared his long rifle. "Shall I end its misuse of Dellerath?"

"If you do, you will never learn who is responsible," snarled Basahd.

Narima could not tell what Basahd meant. Was it implying some other entity had commanded it to possess Dellerath? Faresser Stormsinger glared at the daemon. "Tell us. _Now._"

"A human," Basahd replied.

"Humans? On Eldamen?" Freyan was incredulous.

"Believe what you like," snapped Basahd. "If you think I speak the truth, then look in the cave to the south." Dellerath's body convulsed violently. The chieftain's eyes looked empty and dead. It unnerved Narima. Farseer Stormsinger reclaimed his witchblades. Narima turned to her parents' bodies as her master spoke to Freyan and the Council.

She couldn't believe it had happened so quickly. Her brave, strong father, dead. Her kind, loving mother, gone from this world. Was this death? A simple occurrence as common and as casual as a change in the weather? Narima took their spirit stones and held them close. Tears began to well in her eyes. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked behind her.

Farseer Stormsinger stood there, offering his sympathy. "They will find rest in the infinity circuit."

"Then why does it hurt so much?" She felt her tears stream down her face slowly. She could barely speak past the tightness in her throat. "Why does it hurt when I know they're safe?"

Farseer Stormsinger took her shoulders in his hands and looked into her eyes. "I know it hurts, Narima. But you must be strong until we return to Xerim. The Warrior Path will teach you to use your pain against your enemies. I promise you that I shall do everything in my power to return Basahd to the Warp and punish those who brought it here. But for now, you must harden your heart and steel yourself for whatever lies ahead."

Narima nodded silently because it would hurt for her to speak. She hung her parent's spirit stones from her neck. They rested next to her own waystone. All three pulsed in unison with her heartbeat. Her sadness and pain melted away when she placed a hand on the gems. It was replaced with resolve.

_I promise I will be more than salvage. I will make you proud, Father._

**Inquisitor Farduchi Snakati paced nervously** back and forth inside the cave. Basahd had finally taken possession of the leader of this eldar planet. He found the location fascinating; it was far from any other known eldar settlement. Even more fascinating, however, was the existence of the Standard Template Construct on this planet.

Inquisitor Maric had received reports of an energy signature akin to that of a functional STC below the planet's surface. Snakati requested to be assigned to this mission. He needed a chance to redeem himself after so many other assignments had gone less than swimmingly. If the STC was completely intact and operational, Snakati would be a hero for unearthing it. _He _would be responsible for the new age of prosperity and power which would follow. Inquisitor Maric would forget that he had summoned a daemon to dispose of the eldar instead of calling for reinforcements to destroy them. The thought gave him chills.

Suddenly, Basahd materialized in front of Snakati in a flume of purple fire. It looked vaguely humanoid, but its skin was a deep red, and it had long, black horns. The daemon towered over Snakati, arms crossed. "Dellerath is dead, Snakati. And the eldar are on their way here."

"What? You mean the craftworlders, as well?"

"Yes. I saw their ship leave, but some stayed behind."

Snakati frantically grabbed at his hair. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. He turned pleadingly to Basahd. "You must help me when they arrive! I have no chance against craftworlders! My crew is in orbit, and all of us are unarmed!"

Basahd's face twisted into a wry smile. "I _must_ help you? That is amusing. I owe you nothing, human."

Snakati was incredulous. How could Basahd simply abandon him _now_, when his goal was so _close?_ He pointed an accusatory finger at the daemon. "You knew! You _knew _this would happen from the moment the craftworlders arrived!"

"I did," Basahd replied. "It was only a matter of time. I hope you enjoy your death." And with that, Basahd drifted through a portal to the Warp, its cold laughter echoing even after it had gone.

What could Snakati _do?_ How would he explain it to Inquisitor Maric – provided he lived long enough to do that? He was no match for craftworlders. The craftworld eldar had the formidable Aspect Warriors at their command. There were no Aspect Warriors here, not yet at least. But a _Farseer?_ Snakati was as good as dead. He had to escape. Snakati ran for the mouth of the cave, fumbling for his voxcaster so he could call for extraction from his ship, which floated in orbit, cloaked from the naked eye and most types of scanning technology. A loud beep caught his attention. Another sounded, and another, with progressively shorter intervals until they were barely distinguishable from each other. Snakati looked into the sky. A patch of the vast field of stars distorted, and momentarily a large Imperial starship came into view.

Snakati felt overwhelming elation. Finally! They had received his report! He was saved!

Then his joy immediately fell cold. They weren't supposed to come. The Inquisition was here because they were displeased. Everything was falling apart. He wouldn't be venerated as a hero; he would be reviled as an enemy of the Imperium, or, even worse, forgotten completely. A streak of orange and red flared across the night. Snakati knew it was his own ship. So this was it. The Inquisition planned to kill him and simply destroy the eldar outright. Would they use the Exterminatus? Snakati could only hope that they would hear him out.

Something grabbed Snakati's ankle. "There is nowhere else to run for you." Basahd's voice. Snakati made a frantic but futile attempt to escape the daemon's grasp. The monster dragged the Inquisitor screaming into the darkness of the cave.

**Freyan followed Anchros **while Anchros' apprentice Narima and the Seer Council trailed behind him. Humans and a daemon. He should have known there was some sort of manipulation afoot on Eldamen. He regretted that he could not save Dellerath. Hara would be heartbroken.

The arrival of the human vessel made their situation all the direr. Freyan knew time was of the essence: Anchros needed time to neutralize Basahd; Remil needed to return in enough time to turn the tide of the inevitable Imperial assault on Eldamen; the entire planet needed the humans to delay the time of the start of their attack. His thoughts turned to the weapon they called "Exterminatus." He had heard terrible stories of the devastation it caused, burning a planet's very atmosphere until nothing remained but ashes and death. Freyan shuddered involuntarily.

They reached the mouth of the cave. Anchros made a step toward entering, but Freyan stopped him and signaled that he should go first. His machine-aided eyesight was keener than Anchros', psychic abilities aside, and he would not risk the life of the Farseer. Freyan prepared his long rifle and entered the darkness. His eyepiece detected no life for some distance. He motioned to the rest of the party to follow carefully. The Ranger took point as they descended further into the unknown.

A light was ahead. Freyan could tell it was artificial, of the kind humans used to illuminate their camps. So this was where hid the ape that had summoned Basahd and brought ruin to Eldamen. It was typical of a human to completely ignore the ramifications of its actions. Freyan raised a hand to tell Anchros and the others to stay behind. He crept forward carefully, making sure his steps would not be heard by anything at the site. His cloak would camouflage him from the primitive eyes of any humans. He could only see one. It was on its knees, and its arms were raised above it as though bound by invisible chains. The scene did not disturb Freyan in the least. He whispered behind him, "Only one. But be wary."

His companions trod cautiously forward. They surrounded the human. It looked up feebly. It muttered something in its own language. Freyan recognized it as a nonspecific slur for any beings that were not human. It bore on its breast a large human letter with the image of one of their skulls imposed over it; this marked him as part of their "Inquisition."

"Freyan," said Anchros. "Ask it about Basahd."

Freyan nodded. He thought carefully about the crude and unrefined human tongue to make sure the Man would understand him. "Where is the daemon?" It had been some time since Freyan had last spoken "Gothic," as the humans called it. He stumbled over the hard, ugly sounds of it.

"Here," the human replied. "You can't stop it."

Freyan translated for Anchros. "Tell it that it has been ignorant and foolish."

The human responded by spitting at Freyan. He tried to stop himself from retaliating violently. It didn't work. He lashed out with a fist, striking the human across its face. It spat blood.

"That is quite enough of _that_."

Freyan turned to the source of the voice, which had spoken in Gothic. Another member of the Imperial Inquisition, in a much cleaner and ornate uniform, walked calmly but purposefully down the cave corridor to the makeshift camp. "I don't even know if any of you filthy xenos understand me. If you can, then leave. This is Imperial business."

"I understand your grotesque language, human," responded Freyan.

"Then tell the rest of your people that a rare mood of generosity has struck me. I will give every eldar on this planet an amount of time I deem sufficient to evacuate. You were fortunate that there is something we want on this planet, otherwise we would have just burned the atmosphere. As for you," said the higher-ranking human as he turned to the other, "you are to be executed for your recklessness."

"Allow me an appeal, Inquisitor Maric! I am rendered immobile by these uncivilized savages!"

"You get no appeal," said Maric as he withdrew a weapon from a fold of his overcoat. He took only a moment to aim before he pulled the trigger. The captive human's head jerked back before falling limp toward its superior. Blood ran from a circular hole in the middle of its forehead. The corpse crumpled to the ground unceremoniously. Freyan knew no other race with such a disregard for life. Maric returned the weapon to its resting place. "There. I must warn you that I have substantial military forces in orbit above us. If you do not submit, we will simply destroy you."

Purple fire erupted from the body of the daemon-summoner. Basahd revealed itself.

It spoke in the eldar language. "This was certainly unexpected." It grinned. "Let's see if we can't make it even more interesting."

**Inquisitor Octavius Maric looked up **at the daemon above him. So this was Basahd. This was the creature Snakati had summoned from the Warp to subtly destroy the planet eldar. Cold fear gripped his heart. He could not let it show, especially not after its promise to make things "more interesting." "I demand you tell me why you've done this!"

Basahd laughed. "Octavius Maric. Snakati's superior. You are in no position to demand anything of me. I could crush you like an insect, as easily as you snuffed out Snakati's life."

"Then why haven't you?" Maric sensed something wrong. He hoped the xenos would stay out of this, but Maric was given confidence by the fact that it was speaking plain Gothic. Only one of them could understand what was happening.

"Were you humans truly so deluded as to believe you had at long last found the key to ruling the galaxy?" Basahd's eyes narrowed. "The Standard Template Construct was a lie. I have been manipulating the 'mighty' Imperium of Man from the beginning."

Maric stood still, registering the daemon's words. He could only say one thing past the lump of fear and disappointment in his throat. "Why?"

"In truth… I was bored." Basahd cackled as it reached down and put Maric in a stranglehold. Maric's legs flailed uselessly as he was lifted off the ground, gasping for breath. This was how he would die.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck Basahd in the torso. Its grip slackened, and Maric felt himself flung against the wall, held there by some invisible force. One of the eldar faced Basahd defiantly. Its face bore a mark of deep red; whether tattoo or scar Maric could not say. Three of the other aliens held their hands in front of Maric. Surely they were all Seers. _They_ held him against the cave wall with their psychic power.

Maric smirked. They would soon be dead anyway. He had managed to activate the signal to invade the planet's surface while Basahd was choking him.

**Anchros had to save the human's life.** He did not like doing it, but it had bought him time to prepare an offense against Basahd, aided by his predecessors. He had not understood what the alien said to their mutual foe, but he caught the general idea from Basahd's responses, which were, oddly enough, in the eldar language.

The Farseer could not hope to defeat the daemon completely, but he could at least prevent it from causing any more destruction on Eldamen. Anchros gathered energy from the Warp and traced a symbol on the ground with his staff. Shafts of Warp energy surrounded Basahd like a cage.

_That will not hold Basahd forever, Stormsinger_, said the Farseer who had fought it before.

_It will be long enough_, replied Anchros.

"Clever. I cannot even retreat to my domain. Such must be the power of a Farseer. But surely you realize this will not contain me for long."

Anchros merely glared at the daemon. He then turned to the human and similarly bound it without saying a word. It would not understand him. It laughed defiantly. "I've already won," it said. "You will all die."

"Anchros," said Freyan urgently, "it said we will – "

The cave shook. The human continued to laugh. Anchros knew what it meant without understanding its words. "Everyone above ground! Now!"

They all hurried to the surface. Anchros could already hear the sound of the Imperium's warriors as they marched toward the settlement. The one in the cave knew that whatever they had been seeking was not here, but humans lacked psychic communication and it had not used any personal communication device. The odds of the Imperial army simply bombing the planet from orbit were low.

Outside the cave, armored shuttles descended from the large flagship hanging above Eldamen like a sinister moon. He detected about 1,000 battle-hardened humans. They were not as obsessed with violence or as difficult to read as Astartes, which boded well for the eldar. However, some had overpowering wills. This was a very small number compared to the rest; fewer than 100, but Anchros could not pinpoint a precise amount. They remained alert, but their thoughts were not on destroying Eldamen. Anchros deduced that they were perhaps specialists trained for combat with daemons, sent here in the event of a large-scale invasion from the Warp. They drew ever closer to the village.

Time. They needed time.

"Freyan, take Narima and the Council to the village. I can distract them until Remil arrives."

Freyan scowled. "How will you do that, Anchros? There are several hundred of them."

"One thousand," Anchros corrected. "Go."

Freyan reluctantly led the Seers away from Anchros. Narima lingered. "You plan to fight them?"

"Of course not," answered Anchros. "But I can delay them before they get to the village."

"Narima," said Freyan impatiently.

Anchros' apprentice drew closer to him. He could feel a maelstrom of emotions inside her fighting for control. "Be careful, Master."

"I will."

Narima nodded. She hesitated, reluctant to leave Anchros, but then the young eldar followed Freyan around the human army.

Anchros felt a great disturbance in the Warp. Remil was returning with reinforcements from Xerim. The young Farseer opened his rune pouches and concentrated on an army, vast and powerful. He felt the Xerimite ship settle within the webway and sent a psychic message to Remil. There was a faint pulse of acknowledgement from his friend.

Anchros heard sounds of human weapons and knew his ruse had worked. He prayed his phantom army would survive long enough to save Eldamen.

**Melathanar returned to where his warriors **awaited deployment. "We have met with the Autarch, I know our instructions, we go to the planet's surface on our order." As was common of exarchs, Melathanar referred to himself in the first-person singular and plural. When using the singular, he spoke of himself as someone alive and dead at the same time. It confused Zarhuthil.

Melathanar donned his helmet, hiding the aged face marked in blood with the rune of the Swooping Hawk Aspect. Zarhuthil and the others followed their exarch's lead. His vision was filled with squad vital signs, armor diagnostics, and other important readouts. The world through the eyes of the Hawk helmet felt as natural to Zarhuthil as it did through the naked eye. Melathanar had seen to that. Tetheniel's voice came over the internal communication system. "You said we had orders from the Autarch, Melathanar. What are they?"

The exarch of the Winged Judgment Shrine inspected his sunrifle a final time before the battle. "We may not see battle, the enemy is distracted, we are to evacuate the settlement on the planet."

"Who is the enemy?" asked Koralesh. The soldiers had been informed of very little on the extremely short voyage to this world.

"Humans; not Astartes, but among the best of the unaltered." Melathanar walked to a chute through which most Swooping Hawks entered battle. The hatch led to the webway, and the webway led to the material world. "The standard formation, Tetheniel behind us, as most experienced. Koralesh follows, then Zarhuthil, finally Namaril. On the planet, just outside the settlement, lies a webway portal. Women and children are priority, bring them through the portal, Warp Spiders protect the village."

The Winged Judgment lined up according to their commander's orders. Melathanar held up three fingers. He lowered one, and then another. The exarch pointed forward imperatively and dove through the tube. The others followed. Zarhuthil remained focused on Koralesh's helmet as they hurtled through the stormy blue and purple of the Warp. Night greeted them when they exited the webway, high above the ground. Melathanar activated his wing pack and peeled away from his squad, who soon followed. Zarhuthil could see fighting in the distance, away from the eldar-built structures which made up the village. He hoped the eldar were winning.

"Winged Judgment, this is Autarch Iyegar. I have just received a distress signal from Freyan Forgeblade. He is trapped within the Imperium's numbers with members of the Seer Council and Farseer Stormsinger's apprentice. The Council has erected a psychic forcefield, but it will not last long against the humans' weaponry. Melathanar, I need you and your warriors to bring them to the ship. The other shrines shall evacuate the village."

"Acknowledged, we go, they shall not be harmed." The exarch wheeled about in mid-air and sped toward the fight. His disciples followed dutifully.

Namaril asked, "Will we see battle after all?"

"Be on your guard, the humans are dangerous, protect the group. Tetheniel, rescue the Ranger, you are strongest. We shall defend a Council member, as will Koralesh, as will Namaril. Zarhuthil, take the Farseer's apprentice, the last of the five."

Melathanar's warriors all acknowledged the order as they soared over scorched earth. Why did the humans waste their energy attacking empty air? It was illogical. They seemed as though they had been stricken mad, besieged by invisible foes against whom they believed they needed to fight. They did not notice the Winged Judgment fly above them. A much smaller group of soldiers some distance away surrounded five eldar and fired fruitlessly at them. Projectiles bounced harmlessly off a slight distortion in the air around the eldar: the Council's forcefield. Zarhuthil distinguished his target easily; the Seers stood out because of their age, and the Ranger wore a shimmercloak. The girl was rather obviously the Farseer's apprentice.

"Grenades, from Circling Hunters, _now!_" commanded Melathanar.

Zarhuthil followed his squad into the formation, in which they flew above the group in a circle. As one, they each cast down the Swooping Hawk grenade pack, the most devastating weapon in their arsenal. Only a moment passed before the explosives detonated, causing a rain of shrapnel and gore the likes of which Zarhuthil relished. The explosion drew the attention of soldiers from the main force. Melathanar screeched to the Seers, "Lower the shield, we will protect you, return you to Xerim!" Melathanar positioned himself above and slightly behind one of the Seers; his followers did so with their own targets. "On my mark, drop, defend your charges!"

Melathanar gave the signal. Zarhuthil deactivated his wings and fell behind the Farseer's apprentice. "Hold tight to me," he ordered as he wrapped an arm around her waist and brought his lasblaster to bear. She had barely enough time to clasp her hands around Zarhuthil's opposite shoulder before he pushed off the ground in unison with his fellow Hawks. His wing pack fluttered to life once more, and the low hum filled his ears like sweet music. She let out a small cry of surprise. Her grip tightened. Melathanar called "Trail of Guilt!" over the helmet communicator. They all adjusted their angles to protect their targets and give suppressing fire against the humans. They left the Imperials behind before long and flew to the village. No human had come close to breaching the Warp Spiders' perimeter.

The last of the villagers were being evacuated. The village was not large, so Zarhuthil had not imagined it would take long. He alighted and set down the Farseer's apprentice. She nervously fixed her hair. "Thank you for rescuing me."

Zarhuthil looked at her and cocked his head to the side. He knew the words, but they held little meaning. His sentimentality, his emotion, all that normally made him Zarhuthil was hidden behind his warmask. She would remember this, but he would not. She returned the blank stare of his helmet's green eyes with a puzzled expression. Zarhuthil could not search for the appropriate response to her gratitude. His warmask blocked that part of his mind. He saw that his brothers-in-arms had removed their helmets. He did so as well. The girl gasped and shuddered, involuntarily and briefly. Zarhuthil noticed her horror, but it inspired no emotion from him. He was not ashamed of his duty as a warrior, not during battle.

The Ranger walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You cannot reach him now. But he will gladly accept your thanks when we return to Xerim." The girl nodded. Her companion led her from Zarhuthil, who watched her go. She glanced back at the Aspect Warrior only once.

Zarhuthil rejoined his squad and entered the webway portal.

**The Warp distorted behind Anchros.** He turned to find Remil standing in front of a webway portal. "The village is evacuated," he reported. "Shall we return?"

"Yes," replied Anchros.

_Release your captives, Anchros. All will set itself aright._

In response to the Farseer who had helped him fight Basahd, Anchros halted the illusion of the army and unbound the human and the daemon in the cave. "Let us hurry."

The webway portal closed behind Xerim's leaders as they walked through the webway in silence to the ship. Once aboard, Remil asked, "What will become of Eldamen?"

"It matters not," replied Anchros. "Its inhabitants will be assimilated into the craftworld and the Path."

"What of the humans? And the daemon?"

Anchros scowled; not at Remil or his question, but at all of the night's pain. "It matters not."

**Inquisitor Octavius Maric fell from the wall** of the cave, where he had been held by the considerable psychic power of an eldar Farseer. Xenos. Deceitful. Contemptible. He wanted to kill something. So much time. So much of his resources. So much had been wasted in chasing a nonexistent Standard Template Construct.

He looked to Basahd, still trapped inside its cage. It flickered. Suddenly, the Warp energy around the daemon disappeared. It furrowed its brow, arms crossed, looking at the ground. "Hmmm. The eldar have fled. Interesting." It looked at Maric and grinned. "I have once more fought a worthy opponent from the craftworld Xerim. I am incensed, but I am nothing if not gracious in defeat." It stepped toward Maric slowly, purposefully. "Especially when I am left with a gift from my opponent. First, I will feast upon your flesh." Lesser daemons began to materialize behind Basahd. "And then, I will destroy your army. Already my subordinates besiege your transport." Maric fumbled for his gun. Basahd pointed at Maric's hand, and a bolt of lightning disarmed the Inquisitor. "Your Grey Knights are nothing faced with my power." Basahd grabbed Maric by his arms with one hand and his legs with the other. Maric felt Basahd slowly pull him apart. "Make your death screams enjoyable for me."

Maric felt his stomach separate from the rest of his body. Then he felt nothing.


	4. Futures

_**Xerim survives. If it must fight, then it shall. If it must adapt, then it shall. Above all else, Xerim survives.**_

_~ Unknown; attributed to the Founder_

**Hara looked to the sea wistfully.** She had not moved for some time. Freyan comforted her simply with his presence. He knew it was all he could do. Dellerath's death weighed heavy on her, as did the loss of her planet. Even though she asked no more of him than a shoulder to rest her head, he still wished he could do more for her. Without knowing why, Freyan began to sing "The Death of Eldanesh." It seemed appropriate. Its slow, sad melody evoked loss, pain, regret. Her voice joined with his. Together they sang a dirge for her father, and afterward they simply sat.

Freyan took Hara's hand and stood. He helped her to her feet. Something was missing from her life. Something had been missing from his for some time.

Hand in hand, they left the Dome of Tranquil Reflection. He would fill the hole in her heart. And Freyan knew that Hara would fill the void his had become.

**Anchros meditated in his chamber.** He reached out to the Farseer who had aided him in the struggle against Basahd.

_You did well, Stormsinger._

_Thank you._

_I am sure you have wondered about my name._

_My thoughts cannot be hidden from those with whom I share them._

_This is true. In life, I was known as Tethemin Iyegar. Your friend Remil is a descendant of my brother._

_I thank you for your help, Farseer Iyegar._

_The others will come around in time. You have a strong will, Stormsinger, and they shall respect it._

Narima entered Anchros' thoughts. She was standing outside the door. He opened it to greet her.

"I feel the calling to the Warrior Path. I want to escape the pain of my parents' deaths, but I wish to return and repay the galaxy in blood."

Farseer Iyegar said, _She should go to the Hawk Aspect. There she will learn to turn her hatred into retribution._

"Seek a shrine of the Swooping Hawks," Anchros told his apprentice. "You will know which one to enter. Go. Learn the ways of the Warrior. Return when you have tempered your spirit."

"I shall, Master."

"I know." Anchros had the utmost faith in her.

"Until then." Narima turned and walked away.

_You will do great things someday, Narima Nightwalker,_ thought Anchros._ You will make your father proud._

**Narima walked down the stone corridor **which served as the entrance to the Shrine. She had been drawn to this one. She did not know why. Master Stormsinger had only said she would know which to enter. She supposed it was true, but she would have appreciated some explanation. Narima came to a large chamber with a square skylight in its ceiling. Sunlight flooded the vast room. The walls were decorated with pictures and what she assumed were stories of the bravery of this shrine's adherents.

Several sets of armor stood against the far wall on either side of a stone staircase leading upward. Some of the suits must have been in use, since some of the displays were unadorned. Curious, she walked over to one of the traditional outfits and ran a hand across its chest. She felt almost as though the orange wraithbone pulsed under her palm in time with her heart and her waystone. A faint buzzing sound echoed from Narima. She turned to see its source. An eldar wearing a much more elaborate version of the armor before which she stood hovered below the center of the skylight. He spoke to her.

"You seek guidance, young one, apprentice to the Farseer."

"How did you know?"

The Hawk's wings stopped, and he landed on his feet. He walked toward Narima. "It was we who saved you, on Eldamen, the accursed planet."

Narima recognized his armor. "I never got to thank the one who saved me."

"The words were meaningless, he did not understand, his warmask was on. You will learn, the warmask is a necessity, only an exarch may keep it. Therefore we are a prisoner, forbidden to leave, the shrine is our cage."

"Why do you switch between 'I' and 'we?'"

"Sometimes we speak of our shrine, sometimes I am many but one, sometimes we are one but many. The exarch's body matters not, his minds are important, they share the flesh. We are Melathanar; I am Melathanar; this is our shrine. You have come to learn, we live to teach, it is our purpose."

"I wish to become a Swooping Hawk."

"Then it is well you have come here, to Melathanar's shrine, where he shall teach. I would know your name, if you are to be our student, if we are to be your teacher."

"I am Narima Nightwalker."

Melathanar removed his helmet, revealing the face of an older, battle-worn eldar. "Narima should follow me, meet her fellow Hawks, the Winged Judgment of Khaine."

Narima's new teacher led her up the staircase and into the light.

**Zarhuthil lounged on the grassy cliff, **propping himself up with his elbows. Melathanar said he felt the presence of a new student. He wondered absently what sort of eldar their new comrade would be.

"Who do you think the new Hawk is, Tetheniel?" asked Namaril.

The veteran grunted. "I can't be expected to know which of all of the eldar on Xerim would come here. We'll meet him soon enough."

"Maybe it won't be a he," Namaril said, almost in awe. "How would you feel about battling alongside a female?"

Koralesh chuckled. "As long as she does not prove a better warrior than I, then she may join the shrine thrice over if she likes."

"Especially if she finds you attractive, right, Kora?"

Zarhuthil's friend grinned at him. "You know me too well."

"Winged Judgment," Melathanar called as he emerged from the temple, "meet your new comrade, Narima Nightwalker." The eldar who followed the exarch was a young, pretty female with dark hair and fair skin. Zarhuthil found himself mystified by her beauty. Melathanar continued, "Be known to her, her training begins soon, we shall shortly number six. I retire to my chambers, you may all leave, Narima must return upon the next cycle."

Narima, as Melathanar called her, stood with her hands behind her back, nervous to approach her new brothers-in-arms. Unsurprisingly, Namaril took the initiative. "My name is Namaril Solathis." He extended his hand in greeting. "I was the newest before you, so I know exactly how you feel right now." Narima took his hand politely.

"I am Koralesh Windreach," said Koralesh, bowing deeply. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"I have forgotten my family name, but I am Tetheniel. I have served longest among us, and I fought alongside him whose body Melathanar currently inhabits."

Zarhuthil got up and walked over to Narima. "Zarhuthil Braeseth." Narima studied Zarhuthil's face. The look in her eyes was one of recognition. He was sure he had never met her before.

"I…" she began. Narima hesitated. "Freyan Forgeblade and Melathanar told me you would not remember me, but… you saved me from a battle a few cycles past. I tried to thank you, but I was told my gratitude would not penetrate your warmask."

"Ah." Zarhuthil knew there had been a battle, but, naturally, he could remember nothing. "You are welcome."

Koralesh leaned toward Zarhuthil and whispered, "I think she might like you."

"Quiet." Tetheniel, Koralesh, and Namaril left Zarhuthil alone with Narima. They stood in silence. Zarhuthil broke it. "So you start training next cycle."

"Yes," she replied.

"Perhaps you would… care to take a walk with me?"

Narima smiled timidly. "Certainly."

**Narima may have lost her parents,** but now she had a Path. She had a purpose. And now she had Zarhuthil, as well.

She did not know what the future held, but it looked as bright as the sun of the Shrine of Winged Judgment.


End file.
